


as life is sometimes

by izzetboilerworks



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, i get that i shouldn't but..., infidelity... but only kind of, look i love hos and moose, wow the melancholy jumped out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 05:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16361537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzetboilerworks/pseuds/izzetboilerworks
Summary: “Everything tender and melancholy - as life is sometimes, just for one moment.”-Jean Rhys





	as life is sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I didn't really have a horse in this postseason race but I was rooting for the Brewers due to my intense love of several of their players. When they were down I was thinking about how I'd write something if they lost. So here this is. 
> 
> This isn't beta'd.

It's a five hour flight from Milwaukee to Miami. There's the path of least resistance. What he should do is go home, kiss his wife, and tuck his daughter and son back in and get ready to pack up the house they're staying in before returning home. Mike can tell himself that's the correct decision. 

Home is only a ten minute drive from the ballpark. He could lay his head against Stephanie's chest and listen to her breathe and she'd pet his hair and tell him what he wants to hear. There's always next year, he did his best-- but being the final out in an elimination game is-- difficult. 

(He'd tried-- failed-- it was what it was.) 

But he doesn't want platitudes or her gentle hands or having to keep everything in check because his kids were sleeping in the next room. 

The best thing-- one of the best things-- about his _girl on the side_ was that he wasn't married. He could just drop in. 

He uses his phone and books a flight to Miami. He tells Stephanie he'll be home in a few days and that they'd get everything settled then. 

He knows she knows and there's a reason why she calls him "Uncle Eric" when posting about Mila and him. They make it work.

Mike shoves everything in his locker left in his duffel bag and leaves behind the team. He should stay, he should drown his sorrow with them, one last team thing. But -- 

He's going to drown his sorrow another way, the best way. 

* 

He lets himself in to Eric's house. 

The key's still in the same place it always is. The TV is on, playing college football and there's a few beer bottles on the table. Mike looks for signs of someone else. 

(Though he busts in on Eric all the time; he's never found him with someone else.) 

It probably means something. Mike doesn't think about it though. 

Eric's on the couch, stretched out and sleeping, eyes closed with the lids fluttering. He looks peaceful. Mike should feel bad about this. But he never does. It's just their relationship, Eric gives, Mike takes-- it wheels on. 

"Hey, man," Mike shakes him by his shoulder and watches Eric's eyes snap open and there's a moment of confusion, before he seems to recognize Mike in the low flickering blue light from the television. Eric sits up and rubs his eyes. 

"I wasn't asleep." Eric says and he stretches his arms above his head and his shirt rides up, and Mike sits next to him on the couch. He feels like maybe he should be romantic, or something. Give some indication that this means something to him too. But he doesn't know if it does or if it doesn't. 

"We lost." Mike says and folds his hands in front of him. 

"I saw." Eric says and he slides a half full, warm and probably flat beer over towards Mike. It's almost six in the morning, sun is filtering through the blinds, and it's stupid to be here. To drink shitty beer. To look at Eric's solemn face and the way his hair sticks up everywhere. He has the lines on his face from where his face was pressed to the couch. 

It's not attractive, not really, but it feels soothing somewhere in Mike's soul. He's aching, badly. 

"I was the last out." Mike frowns as Eric makes a gentle noise of agreement. Eric shifts closer, bumps their knees together. 

"You got closer than I did." Eric links their hands and Mike doesn't pull away. He never pulls away as Eric does these things. More intimacy than he's comfortable with but he-- Eric's good to him so he doesn't want to hurt him. 

"Well, the Padres." Mike shrugs and chuckles and doesn't miss the flash of emotion flickering over Eric's face. Brief, though. 

"Well, okay." Eric says. They're quiet then. Eric looks contemplative, Mike watches him in his peripheral vision, watches the way his jaw moves, like he's on the verge of saying something. 

They ain't ever been good at talking though. 

Eric rubs the back of his neck. 

"Should I have just stayed home?" Mike asks and he jerks his chin towards the door. Eric shakes his head. 

"No. No, I'm--" Eric frowns and swallows and then slides off of the couch, knocking into the coffee table, the beer spills and on the carpet. 

Eric notices, he doesn't care. 

"I'm good for it. I know why you came." Eric taps at Mike's knee and flashes him a sharp smile. 

This-- they're good at this. 

Mike doesn't even have to say anything. He just spreads his legs and Eric settles on the floor between them and flicks the button on his jeans with his nail before he undoes them. It's like a ritual, every time, and Mike tips his head back and doesn't watch. 

He wants to watch, but he doesn't. He never does. Not all the time because it gets to be too much. Watching his cock slip between Eric's lips, against his tongue, watching the flush grow pink on his cheeks and the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks. 

Eric doesn't waste time. It's not quite perfunctory, but there's a certain pace of it. Always the same kind of pacing. Like they don't have enough time. Maybe they don't. Mike clutches at Eric's hair and doesn't help as Eric struggles with Mike's jeans and doesn't move even when Eric's mouth closes around the head of his cock. 

Mike's gaze flicks down-- at Eric's red lips and pink cheeks and the way he closes his eyes tightly. 

Then looks up at the ceiling as he starts to move-- slick and hot and wet, up and down his cock. The movement's the same. Eric clutches at his thighs in the exact same way. His blunt nails dig into the sensitive skin, he breathes out through his nose, and Mike chews on the inside of his mouth so he doesn't make noise. 

It's just the sound of the announcer on TV, calling out the yardage gained on a play, talking about the game and it's meaning and the sound of Eric's mouth on him, wet and a little sloppy, harsh breathing through his nose, and his own pounding heart that he can hear over the din of everything else. 

It's quick-- Eric knows how to get him-- and it never lasts long enough. He always-- 

" _Eric_." Warning him he's about to come and Eric pulls back and keeps his eyes closed and wraps a hand around his cock, jerking him off until Mike comes on his face, on his red swollen lips. Eric smiles at him when he finishes and wipes his face off with the inside of his t-shirt. 

He doesn't feel better about anything and he tips his head back, counts the whorls on the stucco ceiling. 

"You good?" Eric asks. 

"No." Mike's honest at least. Eric makes another quiet noise and tucks himself into Mike's side, wrapping his arms around him. 

"I won't make fun of you if you wanna cry." Mike believes him, but he doesn't think he does. He feels like there's pressure but it'll be okay. There's always next year and they can figure some stuff out. Both of them are quiet, Mike can't read Eric when they're this close without actively staring at him. 

He doesn't want to. 

Maybe Eric will fall back asleep and Mike can slip out but he doesn't. He shifts after a few moments and slides his hand in Mike's again. 

"I don't need to cry." Mike says and Eric nods, solemn again. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

"You can stay if you need to lay low." Eric's offer is sincere. And always without expectation. In these moments, Mike feels like perhaps he loves Eric a tiny bit. 

They're brothers, for a certain value of the word. 

That's normally what they do and maybe it's good. Maybe it's not good. 

"I'm gonna go to bed though." Eric stands and hands Mike the remote. He disappears after a moment and Mike flips through the channels, watches as they replay the bottom ninth. He watches himself strike out and then clicks the television off. 

Eric's undressing when Mike gets in his room, pulling off his t-shirt and shimmying out of his pants. Mike usually leaves. But he doesn't want to. Eric _gets it_.. He doesn't think he could be around anyone else right now. 

He strips and joins Eric in bed, wraps his arms around him. He doesn't normally stay. Eric turns in his arms, gently strokes a hand over his face. 

Mike feels the hotness behind his eyes and presses his face against Eric's strong chest. Eric's arms slide around him and pull him close, lips against his forehead. 

Mike's breathing shudders and his sobs are quiet, but Eric doesn't react besides to hold him tighter. 

Eric gives, Mike takes. The world keeps turning.


End file.
